


A Day at the Office

by FranklyChaos



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-01 18:44:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 6,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10196729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FranklyChaos/pseuds/FranklyChaos
Summary: John gets himself into a mess, and for the first time in his life, Sherlock doesn't know what to do.Also for the first time, he finds there's something other than work that he can't live without.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: First ever fanfic, so be gentle! This is chapter 1 of my Johnlock fanfic. Hope you enjoy it. It will also be posted on my blog, whenever i get around to it. Also, i have no editors, so any mistakes are my own. 
> 
> Warning: Suicidal thoughts, though only briefly. No actual suicide, but discussions of thoughts/dreams and such.
> 
> Enjoy! And constructive criticism is welcome!!

John sighed.  Just another day, spent chasing Sherlock around town, jumping across rooftops and tumbling down fire escapes.  He leapt and stumbled, quickly regaining his footing.  Had to catch up with Sherlock, can't let the man get too far ahead.  
  
"Sherlock!"  he panted, more winded than he should have been.  The swirling coat turned and whipped out of sight.  "Wait!"  He shook his head and kicked himself into a sprint.  
  
He turned the corner, gun ready, and immediately backtracked, keeping out of sight.  Sherlock was talking down their man, who was inconveniently wielding a shotgun.  John cursed under his breath, peering round the corner.  He frowned, turned to the wall next to him.  Fire escape, all the way up to the roof.  he could get an advantage from there.  
  
He clambered up the ladder as noiselessly as he could.  He was looking down on Sherlock and their criminal, who was waving his shotgun around recklessly.  
  
Should he fire a warning shot?  Would that startle him, make him shoot Sherlock?  
  
He watched and listened, chewing his lip.  Sherlock could talk him down, right?  The man pointed his gun back at Sherlock, yelling profanities.  Apparently not.  
  
His heart leapt in his chest.  Sherlock took a small step back, and John caught the sound of Lestrade's sirens nearby.  Near, but not near enough.  He clicked off the safety, steadied his breathing, and pulled the trigger.  
  
The man screamed and dropped the gun, staring at the new hole in his hand.  Sherlock looked up at John and nodded appreciatively.  
  
They gave their statements to Lestrade and caught the first cab back to Baker Street.  John bit his frustration back, but Sherlock caught it anyway.  
  
"You're angry."  he stated plainly.  
  
Of course he was angry.  Sherlock had almost gotten himself _shot_!  But he composed himself.  "No,"  he sighed, letting his breath be a release.  
  
Sherlock turned to face him in the cab.  "You  _are,_ John.  What is it?"  
  
John sighed again.  "You almost got yourself  _shot_ , Sherlock.  You almost --"  he fought back a surge of emotions, voice going quiet.  "You almost  _died_.  Again."  
  
His companion cocked a brow.  "Again?"  Then his expression cleared, remembering his false suicide.  
  
The suicide that tore John to shreds, that ruined his relationship with Mary.  The suicide that had turned John  _off_ , that sent him into a downward spiral that he willingly participated in.  The suicide that Sherlock didn't seem to think of as relevant, at least not outwardly.  
  
The cabbie stopped outside Baker Street and they stepped out.  Sherlock stopped John outside the front door.  
  
"I am sorry, John."  he whispered.  It had been two months since his return, two months since he'd learned of what John had gone through, of how many times he'd gripped his pistol against his head when Sherlock wasn't there.  "For everything I put you through."  
  
John shook his head and rested his hand on the door to their flat.  "God, Sherlock.  Do you know what you did?"  He didn't realise he'd said it aloud until Sherlock looked at him with an expression he'd never seen on that usually sarcastic face:  regret.  "No, Sherlock.  Sorry.  No, I'm fine, we're fine.  It's okay.  Sorry."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So just so you all know:  
> I tend to write in short bursts, which makes my chapters shorter. I've always found that to be more manageable. I'll try to post every day, but I make no promises.

A tense silence hung about the flat, not that Sherlock noticed.  He hadn't pressed John for answers, but he was beginning to wish he had.  It could have shut John down, removing all chances of getting something out of him, but it could also have gotten them to talk. And then things could finally go back to normal.  
  
John was still sulking around, closing himself off.  He hadn't had a full conversation with him in over a week, not that they ever had full conversations to begin with.  Sherlock was becoming worried, and he didn't like the feeling.  
  
"John," he began, calling to him from the couch.   
  
"Yeah?"  He was in the kitchen, puting the kettle on.  "What is it, Sherlock?"  
  
Sherlock paused, not knowing how to put the words together in a passive way.  "Is everyhing . . . alright?"  
  
John didn't answer for a long time, and he started to wonder if he'd even heard the question.  "Everything is fine, Sherlock."  
  
Sherlock frowned.  John was lying.  And he wasn't trying very hard to hide it.  It had something to do with his fall, that much was obvious.  He couldn't figure it out, and it bothered him immensely.  He decided to try again. "John, something is obviously bothering you.  What is it?"  
  
Again, there was a thick silence before John decided to answer.  "Sherlock," he sighed, "I can't keep doing this."  
  
Sherlock stiffened.  Can't do what? He didn't mean- no, of course he did.  What else could he mean?  "You're leaving then," he said. It wasn't a question, but he hoped John would say no.  
  
John returned to the sitting room. "No, Sherlock! No, that's not what I meant." Sherlock allowed himself to relax a fraction.  "I just meant. . . I can't keep watching you nearly getting yourself killed!"  He was shaking, and his leg wouldn't hold him. He limped over to his chair.    
  
Sherlock slid closer, planning to catch him if he fell. "Alright?" he asked.  John nodded. Sherlock nearly hesitated.  "We have been taking on more dangerous cases." he acknowledged.   
  
"No, Sherlock." John shook his head.  "They're no more dangerous than before.  But . . . you've gotten _careless_!"  
  
Sherlock scoffed. "I am never careless, John."  
  
John pressed his lips together and stood on unsteady legs.  "I need some air."  With that, he pulled on his jacket and left, the door slamming behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

John trudged about the streets of London, the sky hanging grey and low.  He zipped his jacket closed and stuffed his hands into its pockets.  His mobile pinged.  Mycroft.  
  
_What has he done this time? MH_  
The question sounded exasperated, even through text.  
  
**I'd be surprised if you didn't know, Mycroft.**

There was a long pause, and he could feel Mycroft's sigh through the phone.   _He really does need you, you know. MH_  
  
John scowled and typed back angrily:  **He seemed to be doing just fine without me before.  I'm sure he'd be fine again if I left.**  
  
_We both know that isn't true. Were it not for you, he would have gotten himself killed long ago. MH_  
  
**And now he'll get killed BECAUSE of me**  
  
There was a lengthy pause, and John knew he'd said either the perfectly right thing, or the exactly wrong one.  He was beginning to regret starting a conversation with the man in the first place.  
  
Mycroft's last text came in the form of a cryptic message, as usual with the Holmses.  _Know this, John: Sherlock would never save anyone but himself.  But he has saved you.  MH_  
  
John didn't reply, and shoved his phone back into his pocket.  He figured while he was out, he might as well make a run to Tesco and pick up a few things.  He had very nearly made it there when his mobile pinged again. With a sigh, he opened the text from Sherlock.  
  
_Have you gotten lost? SH_  
  
He rolled his eyes.  **No, Sherlock.  Just making a trip to Tesco while I'm out**.  
  
_We don't need anything. SH_  
  
**I'm pretty sure we need milk, actually**.  
  
_That can wait.  Come back to the flat.  SH_  
  
John frowned.  What was Sherlock up to?  **Why?**  
  
Nothing, for a while.  He felt a twinge of panic in his chest.  
  
**Sherlock, is everything alright?**  
  
_Fine.  Come back to the flat. SH_  
  
He sighed, relieved.  **Let me just get some milk and I'll be there in a few minutes**.  
  
_Please, John.  SH_  
  
John stopped, stared at the word that Sherlock next to never used, certainly never out of politeness, and definitely never with John.  He sighed.  
  
**I'm on my way**.


	4. Chapter 4

"What is it, Sherlock?" John sighed, shutting the door behind him as he entered the flat.  He clambered up the stairs to find the flat empty.  "What the bloody hell?" His mobile pinged.  
  
_Case from Lestrade. Meet at the Yard. SH_  
  
Of course. John rolled his eyes and typed back **Be there soon** before grabbing his gun and going back down the stairs to catch a cab.  
  
They were stuck in traffic not far from Scotland Yard. John sighed and paid the cabbie, getting out to walk.  He was just a block or so away, so very very close.  His mobile pinged.  He almost didn't check it.  
  
_John, where are you? SH_  
  
He frowned.  **Almost there. Got stuck in traffic, decided to walk the last few blocks. Block away.**  
  
_Stay where you are.  The incompetent worms at the Yard let a suspect escape.  He is likely headed your way. SH_  
  
**Am I disarming?** He thought it better to ask than accidentally kill an important suspect - though he supposed their guilt wasn't suspect anymore.  
  
_Yes. He will need to be interrogated later. SH_  
  
**Description?** He couldn't just see someone's guilt from their stride, like Sherlock could.  
  
_Blue cap, grey sweatshirt, torn trousers, slight limp in right leg. SH_  
  
John laughed at the lack of detail, knowing Sherlock acknowledged that John wouldn't notice it.  
  
He stifled his last chuckles at the sight of their suspect.  He was strolling leisurely down the pavement and - sure enough - limping in his right leg.  John tapped **Found him** and sent it, stuffing his mobile into his pocket.  
  
John didn't see Sherlock's reply, _Be careful. SH_  
  
He tried so very hard to look confused, or lost, or something as he approached the suspect.  So very hard.  
  
It didn't work.  The man squinted at him suspiciously, turned tail and ran.  John sighed, almost annoyed, and gave chase.  They passed the Yard,  swerving into an alley a few blocks away.  
  
John knocked his feet from under him, but the man was fast.  He was on his feet instantly, pushing off a wall at John, who was reaching for his gun.  
  
The man got it first, yanking it out of John's grasp.  John froze immediately, raising his hands soothingly, trying to reason with the wild look of panic in the other man's eyes.  His mobile pinged.  The man flinched.  
  
"Put it on the ground!" he commanded.  John obeyed, and the man put a bullet through the offending object.  
  
"Hey, calm down, it-"    
  
"Don't _tell_  me to _calm down_!"  the man practically screeched.   
  
There was a distinct wail of sirens, and John could have laughed.  They were only -what - four blocks from the Yard?  Why bother with the cars at all?  
  
The man's eyes widened in panic. He glanced about, set his jaw, and pulled the trigger.


	5. Chapter 5

His ears were ringing.  And he was falling. Well, sliding, he supposed, down a wall, in the alley.  He shook his head, immediately going into Doctor mode.  
  
Where was he hit?  Left shoulder, just under his other scar.  He chuckled at that - probably not a good sign, laughing at his injury.  
  
Anyway. . .   
  
Did the bullet go through?  Yes, judging by the hole in the wall.  
  
Hit anything important?  No arterial spray from what he could see, though that wasn't much.  Getting a tad light-headed though, so losing a lot of blood.  
  
Ambulance on its way? Well, he didn't know.  But the Yard was, so that was good.  Though whether they'd get there in time . . .  
  
He slowly forced his body into a standing position.  Slowly and painfully, he staggered out of the alley and into plain view from the street.  Easier to find him then.  
  
Sherlock was the first to spot him, unsurprisingly, followed shortly be Lestrade, who let out a sour curse.  
  
Sherlock's eyes widened and fear unfolded across his features.  He was at John's side in an instant.  "Where the _hell_ is the ambulance?" he snapped.  
  
"Sherlock," John tried to make it scolding, but it came out hoarse and broken.  His strength failed and he toppled to the ground, Sherlock on barely catching him.  
  
"John," Sherlock rasped, sounding strangely confused and frenzied.  "John what do I do?"  
  
John pushed Sherlock away, just enough to give himself room to sit down.  "I'll be fine, Sherlock. No major arteries were hit, and the bullet went clean through."  
  
Sherlock looked helplessly at John's blood on his hands.  "John . . ."  
  
John offered a weak smile and blinked back unconsciousness.  "Put pressure on the wound.  Here, use my-"  
  
He tried to offer his own jumper to soak up the blood, but Sherlock ripped off his own scarf and used it instead.  "Now what?"  Still worried and lost and panicked, but looking slightly less so.  
  
"Keep me talking, and keep pressure on it.  The ambulance should be here soon.  I'll be fine, Sherlock."  John smiled again, curling his fingers against Sherlock's over his wound.  His friend swallowed hard and nodded.  
  
Their ears caught the familiar yelp of the ambulance's siren only a few blocks away.  
  
"See? Almost here. I'll be-" John had to fight off the black spots again.  "I'll be fine, Sher-"  And this time he couldn't win, and the blackness took him and his grip on Sherlock's hand loosened and his fingers fell.


	6. Chapter 6

A shot rang out just two blocks away, and his stomach lurched and panic overrid everything else in his precious mind palace.  
  
The shot.  John.  Their suspect hadn't had a gun on him.  John. _John_!  
   
And his mind went horribly, utterly, totally and completely _blank_.  
  
So when John told him what he needed to do, he obeyed.   
  
And when John's conciousness fled the scene, his breath hitched in his lungs and he let out a shudder and he _broke_.  
  
Lestrade might have said something, he didn't know.  The ambulance might have arrived, he honestly couldn't have said.  Lestrade and the parametics let him ride in the ambulance, that he remembered.  
  
He remembered a numbness in him while he waited for John to be let out of surgery.  He remembered the hours - _days_ \- he spent waiting for his best friend, his _only_  friend, to wake up.  He remembered the doctors and nurses being worried and not knowing why he wasn't awake yet.  He remembered them rushing John back into surgery when his vitals did a great number of things they shouldn't do.  
  
He remembered roaring in fury when he was told that a stitch had torn and lead to internal bleeding.  He also remembered his brother's not quite understanding, but definitely knowing expression as he smoothed the doctors' ruffled feathers.   
  
And he remembered John's face when he awoke, his first action being to shout for Sherlock, panic written in his eyes.  
  
"Here, John. I'm here."  Sherlock murmured hoarsely, gripping John's fingers just a little too tight.


	7. Chapter 7

"Brother mine, may I have a word with our dear doctor?"  Mycroft's voice floated naggingly from the door.  Sherlock turned to scowl at him, and Mycroft sighed.  "Won't be but a moment, Sherlock."  
  
Sherlock very, very reluctantly left, standing only a few steps from the door, pointedly watching as they spoke.  
  
Mycroft lowered himself into a chair next to the hospital bed. "John, how are you?  The doctors are treating you well, I hope."     
  
John nodded.  "Fine, yeah. Thanks." He sighed, knowing that with Mycroft, a greeting was rarely only that.  "What d'you need?"  
  
The elder Holmse cocked an elegant brow.  "I'm afraid I have a favour I must ask of you."  
  
Suspicious, but also far too tired to care, John yawned, "What is it?"  
  
"Sherlock will blame himself for this, you must know.  He will blame Scotland Yard first, of course, then the criminal, but ultimately, the guilt - in his eyes - will fall to him."  
  
"But he must know it isn't his fault!  There's nothing he could have done!"  
  
"I know that as well as you, but we both know how he is.  I must ask you to help him recover from this, as much as he helps you to recover as well."  
  
John frowned, drug-filmed brain not capable of thinking through Mycroft's words just then. "How do you mean?"  
  
"Remind him that this is something you can survive, and that he is not at fault here." He hesitated.  "Please."  
  
John nodded.  "I will," he promised.


	8. Chapter 8

Just two days later, John was finally allowed to leave.  He suspected Mycroft had something to do with it, as he most definitely should probably not have been released so soon.  But he said nothing of it to Sherlock.  So they took a cab home, Sherlock helping John up the stairs to the flat.  They collapsed on the couch, John already winded and weakened from the steps.  
  
John got to his feet with tremendous difficulty, waving Sherlock away.  "I'll be fine, Sherlock.  I'm going to have a shower." He needed to get the sharp hospital stench off of him.  Sherlock frowned at him skeptically.  "Look, I'll . . . yell, or something, if I need you.  Okay?"  Sherlock nodded reluctantly, and John went to take his shower.   
  
The shower was fine.  It was after, with the temperature difference and the fact that he hadn't eaten anything substantial since breakfast the day before, that he stumbled and fell.  Sherlock was up and at his side in an instant.  
  
"Sherlock, I'm _fine_! Really!  I just tripped, that's all."  John sighed, struggling to his feet.  
  
"You need to eat." Sherlock told him, gently tugging him in the direction of the kitchen.   
  
John smiled at that.  It was quite backwards from usual: him dragging Sherlock to the kitchen to eat _something_  before he left for work.  He let Sherlock lead him to a chair and sit him down without argument.  Sherlock made toast -- really the only thing he _could_  make -- and sat down opposite him.  
  
"Thanks," John sighed when his plate was placed before him.  He ate quickly and silently, ignoring the fact that Sherlock was staring at him from across the table.  
  
"John," his companion said finally, "I need you to teach me."  
  
John looked up, confused.  "Teach you what? What is there that _I_  can teach _you_?"  
  
Sherlock waved away the question.  "Don't be ridiculous John.  You have plenty of things to teach.  Specifically, I was referring to your medicinal practice.  Teach me to be a doctor."  
  
John cocked a brow.  "Sherlock, I can't just teach you that.  Even for you, it would require years of practice and studying." He paused thoughtfully.  "I can show you the basics, and you could take classes, if you wanted.  Why do you want to learn this?"  
  
Sherlock didn't reply.  John realised he'd retreated to his mind palace and sighed, putting his plate in the sink and going up to his room with naught but a "Goodnight, Sherlock."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I just have to say thanks SOOO much for all the reads/kudos/comments! I appreciate it all!
> 
> Also, I'm posting this chapter now, so I wont forget to tomorrow, since AO3 is going to be shut down for a bit.
> 
> And, just so you're all aware, there will probably be no smut. Im really bad at writing it. If I get better between now and when that will happen, Ill add it, but as of now, its looking like a "nope". And tips on that are welcome!
> 
> Please leave your thoughts in the comments! I would really appreciate your criticism and tips and such. 
> 
> Thanks again, guys!  
> Xx

John woke far later than normal, to the sun prodding him through the window.  He groaned tiredly and turned on his side.  He sighed and slowly dragged himself out of bed and hobbled down the steps to the kitchen.  
  
The flat was empty.  He frowned.  Had Sherlock gotten a new case?  He wouldn't be surprised if he had, only that he hadn't told John about it immediately.  He shrugged, glad for the quiet, and made himself breakfast.    
  
He had just turned on the telly and sat down when the door to the flat slammed open.  John lurched to his feet, the blood rushing much too fast to his brain and he thumped down again.  
  
"John, you _have_  to." Sherlock was whining, and John honestly couldn't have cared less.  His head was pounding and his wound was throbbing painfully and a haze had crawled across his vision. Sherlock continued to rant, either not noticing John's pain or not caring.  "John, are you listening?  You must.  There is simply no one else who is even remotely competent enough."  
  
John winced.  "J-just a second, Sherlock.  Just --" a pained hiss escaped his lips.  "Just give me a moment, can you?"  
  
At that, Sherlock fell silent, his expression turning from frustrated to concerned and worried.  He flexed his fingers and stood awkwardly at John's side, not knowing what to do.    
  
John sighed as the pain receded, and blinked hard.  "Okay, Sherlock.  What were you saying?"  
  
His friend's face brightened again.  "You have to teach me, John!"  At John's confused look, he reiterated "Teach me to be a doctor."  
  
John just shook his head.  "I can't teach you that, Sherlock.  Well . . . What specifically do you want to know?  I can show you the basics, if you're that set on it."  
  
Sherlock hesitated.  "What to do, in an emergency," he decided.  
  
"Okay," John nodded.  "I can work with that.  I can show you how to handle a wound until medics arrive, and how to do emergency care if you need to get moving again.  But, Sherlock, why do you want to know this so badly?"  
  
Sherlock stilled his expression and waved a hand at John, passing for normality.  "For emergencies, John." He clipped the 'obvious' off, not wanting to sound too harsh.  Not to John.  
  
John rolled his eyes, but accepted that he would get no more information from the man.  He set about preparing to show Sherlock what he wanted to know, shambling about the flat collecting the necessary supplies.  "Where were you?" he asked, setting his medical bag down on the table.   
  
"Working on the case.  Simple one.  The man confessed as soon as we found him."  Sherlock replied, hanging up his coat.  
  
"They hadn't found him while I was in the hospital?"  
  
The detective stiffened.  "No." he said flatly.  
  
John glanced at him.  "Oh, they needed your help, and you wouldn't leave, so--"  He cut himself off at Sherlock's pained expression. He wondered why Sherlock was so against talking about John being shot.  After all, it wasn't like it hadn't happened before.  But he didn't like seeing Sherlock that way: vulnerable, afraid.  He wasn't all that good at comforting the man, and it made him feel useless.  
  
They both ignored the tension and John spent the following days teaching Sherlock everything he wanted to know.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand here's another chapter, cos I love you guys and also Im bored...
> 
> Xx

"Sherlock," John yawned, "I need to sleep."  He turned to go up to his room.  
  
"John, wait!" John stopped.  "Please, I'm nearly done."  
  
"Sherlock, we can finish in the morning.  You've been up for two days, and I can't keep up with that.  You need to sleep, and I need to sleep."  
  
They'd been up since the previous night.  John had spent the entire time teaching Sherlock how to handle different emergencies.  Sherlock had learned easily, pressing John for more each time he was finished; John had happily obliged, until his eyes were refusing to stay open and his limbs were growing heavy.  
  
Sherlock reluctantly agreed to let John sleep, and grudgingly promised that he would at least try to do the same.  
  
And after John was up in his bed, sleeping soundly, he did try.  His stubborn mind refused to be shut down for the night, so he sighed and settled onto the couch, wandering his mind palace.  He sifted through the past few days and when he reached the day John was shot he felt his heart clench.  He blinked, a tear falling from his face as he left his mind palace.   
  
Sherlock sorted through the unfamiliar feelings his body was humming with.  He could name none of the curious things, and it frustrated him unendingly through the night.  When John woke and came down the stairs, Sherlock found a smile pulling on his lips, a little ball of joy at the sight of him resting in his chest.  
  
And then he knew: those feelings that tormented him in the night -- he could name them.  It was love.


	11. Chapter 11

Somehow, giving a name to the feeling only made Sherlock's situation worse. He pushed the feelings aside, believing -- mostly -- that they would fade with time.  In the meantime, he needed only ignore them and continue with how things were.  
  
In the weeks that followed, he became increasingly concious of how his body had become aware of where John was, constantly.  His closeness to John during the medical "lessons" made it that much more difficult to concentrate.  John would peer over his shoulders and guide his hands to the proper positions and he felt his skin tingle with every touch.  The feelings didn't fade.  
  
That month, Mycroft made an appearance more often than Sherlock would have liked -- that is to say, once.    
  
His umbrella tapped on their door, a precise three times before John opened the it for him.   
  
"John," Mycroft nodded.  John nodded back, and offered tea.  "Please."  
  
John went to the kitchen to put the kettle on, and Sherlock pretended to be preoccupied in his mind palace.  He tried, at least.  He couldn't help a glance at John as he passed, and Mycroft noticed.  
  
"Sherlock," he said in a shockingly considerate-ly low voice.  "Tell me you haven't gotten yourself into _that_  mess."  
  
The detective scowled at his brother. "It's no business of yours."  
  
"On the contrary -- it very much _is_  my business, just as much as _you_  are."    
  
To this, Sherlock remained silent.    
  
"So it is, then." Mycroft shook his head. "Sherlock, I don't actually have any desire to pry, but please, take care.  If things go . . . awry, it could become very difficult for both of you."  
  
"I'm aware of the consequences, which are precisely why I have chosen not to act." he snarled.  "Thank you for your incredible insight."  
  
Mycroft sighed.  "Sherlock, I only wish to offer my best wishes."  
  
John walked in with three teacups balanced carefully in his hand.  "Best wishes for what?  Am i interrupting?" he asked, offering Mycroft a cuppa.  
  
"No John. And thank you, but I'm afraid I can't stay."  He gave the man a peculiar look.  "Farewell."  
  
With that, he left, striding purposefully to the door.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys SO much for over 1000 hits and over 60 kudos! I appreciate all of it!
> 
> Please continue to give me your feedback. I really need all the help I can get.
> 
> Thank you all, lovelies!
> 
> Xx

"So what was that all about?" John asked, passing Sherlock his cup of tea.  "Seemed more off than usual, and that's saying something."  
  
Sherlock made a noncommittal sound and shrugged.  John cocked a brow, but didn't pry.  He settled in his armchair, across from his flatmate, and thumbed through his book.  
  
"Yoohoo!  Boys!"  Ms Hudson called from the stairs.  John opened the door for her, and helped her with the absurd amount of bags hanging from her arms.  "Thank you, John."  
  
"No problem. How're you doing?"  he asked, taking the bags to the kitchen.  
  
"Just fine, John.  Just popped down to Tesco for a bit, thought I'd get you some things."  
  
"Oh you didn't have to! Thanks Ms Hudson."  
  
"It's no worry, dear. Happy to help.  Oh, and Sherlock, I got your honey.  But they were out of your tea."  
  
Sherlock didn't reply.  John gave him a scolding look.  "Thank you, Ms Hudson."   
  
She stayed for tea, and asked how John was getting on and all sorts of useless small talk that Sherlock despised.  He ignored them and set up a small mould experiment that he pretended to be occupied with until Ms Hudson left.  
  
A comfortable silence settled around them, though John was the only one who felt comfortable.  Sherlock's experiment was making no progress, as his eyes were drawn time and again to John, reading in his chair.    
  
"John," he began, not knowing what he intended to say.  
  
John didn't turn to face him, but set his book down.  "Yes, Sherlock?"  
  
Sherlock frowned. He hadn't anything to say. "Nevermind."  
  
"You alright?" John turned, a crease of worry on his forehead.  "You've been a bit . . . off, since Mycroft visited.  Everything okay?"  
  
The detective swallowed, tightening his jaw.  "Of course.  Why wouldn't it be?"  It wasn't really a question, he supposed, but a way to keep John talking, keep the conversation going.   
  
"Just making sure, Sherlock."  John replied, and returned to his book.  
  
Sherlock sighed and attempted to refocus on his experiment.  He couldn't love John. He was straight, firstly, as he constantly said.  And secondly, _if_  they ever had a relationship, it would fall apart the instant John realised that Sherlock was incapable of the level of affection he craved. Of all the people in the world, of all the people he could have, why did he fall in love with John?


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock woke from his two hour nap to a panicked shout from John's room.  He was alert and on his feet seconds later, taking the stairs two at a time.  He didn't bother to knock.  
  
John was asleep, but spasming in his bed, fingers clutching for something that wasn't there.  Sweat laced his brow, and his face was contorted into an expression of pure torment.  
  
"John!" Sherlock's eyes widened in concern.  "John! Wake up!  _John_!"  He shook the doctor's shoulder frantically.   
  
John woke with a terrified yell, eyes frenzied and fingers clutching Sherlock's own much too tightly.  "Sh-Sherlock?" he stammered, heaving in gulps of air.  
  
"I'm here, John." He sat on the edge of John's bed, hesitantly rubbing his back with his spindly fingers.  "I'm here."  
  
For a long while they sat there, comfortable in their silence, as John got his breath back in his lungs.  
  
Finally, Sherlock spoke, a barely audible murmur, "What happened, John?"  
  
His doctor sighed.  "J-just a nightmare, I guess."  
  
Sherlock hesitated again, but pressed on.  "What of?"  
  
John shook his head.  "No. Not now, Sherlock.  Please."  
  
"John. . . How am I supposed to . . . help you if I don't know what's wrong?"  
  
John stared up at him in the darkness, and finally he let his guard take a break for a while.  He squeezed his eyes shut and let his words come.  "It was of you, Sherlock.  It was of you, of every time you almost died, except I wasn't there to save you."  He shuddered out a sigh and held back his tears.  "You died.  For every time I saved you, you died."  
  
When he at last opened his eyes again, they caught a tear dragging down Sherlock's cheek.  He looked away.  
  
"John," the detective whispered hoarsely.   "I . . . I am so sorry, John."  
  
John shivered and pulled his duvet around them both.  "I am, too."  The other man gave him a puzzled look.  "I'm sorry for not saving you."  
  
They remained there throughout the night, and sleep refused to come.  Sherlock tentatively wrapped John in his arms and received no objection, only John's hands curling around his fingers.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there are only two more chapters after this one. No smut, sorry. I may write another, we'll see. Who knows, maybe I'll get into Potterlock.
> 
> Anyway, thanks so much for reading and tolerating my weirdness. 
> 
> Xx

John woke the following morning to Sherlock's arms draped loosely around him, stroking invisible patterns into his back.  He sighed contentedly and nuzzled into the detective's neck.   
  
Sherlock stiffened and shuddered.  "John. . ."  
  
He looked up. "Yes Sherlock?"  
  
"I . . . What . . ."  He sighed frustratedly and abruptly untangled himself from John.  "Need to talk to Lestrade." he muttered, and left.  
  
John blinked, a bitter pang twisting his heart.  Then he frowned, and wondered why.  He muddled through his feelings for a minute, and then nodded, somewhat unsurprising by what he found: love.  But it was, quite obviously, unreturned.  He sighed and bit his lip, knowing he wouldn't be able to hide it from Sherlock for long.  
  
He pushed the feelings aside to be dealt with later and went to make breakfast.  Toast and honey, which he forced into Sherlock's hands, and watched him until he finished it.  
  
"New case?" he asked, finishing his own breakfast.  
  
Sherlock shook his head.  "He just wanted to check in.  Thought you were asleep. He says hello."  
  
"Yeah. . . Tell him I say 'hi' back.  I still have off from surgery.  Anything you want to do?"  
  
The detective offered only a vague sound and a shrug.  John rolled his eyes and went back to his room to read.  
  
Sherlock watched him go, feeling a twinge of guilt at abandoning his doctor so abruptly after his nightmare.  His mobile pinged and he scowled down at it.  
  
_Any news? MH_  
  
_No, but you already know. SH_  
  
_I did say I don't want to pry.  I do actually wish to see you happy, brother dear.  MH_  
  
Sherlock hesitated, but bit back a grimace and asked:  _What do I do, Mycroft? SH_  
  
There was a pause, but a reply chirped a few minutes latee.  _I am no expert in this area, as you well know, but I suggest you ask Ms Hooper, or perhaps your DI Lestrade. MH_  
  
_Thank you. SH_  
  
Sherlock put his mobile away and grabbed his coat.  "Going out, John."   
  
"You want me to come?" came a faint inquiry.  
  
"No no.  Rest. I'll be back soon."  
  
And he was out the door, hailing a cab and directing it to Barts.  The ride was much longer than he'd have liked it to be, but when the cab pulled up to the morgue, he felt a nervous energy settle in.   
  
"Sherlock!" Molly exclaimed when she saw him.  "Don't have any fresh ones for you, sorry."  
  
He waved his hand vaguely.  "Not here for that.  I . . . I need your . . . expertise." He sighed, the words fumbling on his tongue.  
  
Surprise lit her face.  " _My_  expertise? On what?"   
  
He felt his cheeks warming and he turned his head to the floor.  
  
"Oh!" she gasped, understanding. "It's John, isn't it?" She recieved a hesitant nod.  "Oh _Sherlock_. . ."  
  
He scowled at her.  "What do I _do_ , Molly?"  
  
She smiled sympathetically. "Well he's not you, Sherlock. He won't deduce it.  If you want to know how he feels, do what you always do."  He cocked a brow questioningly.  "Experiment."


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock spent the following months testing and observing John's reactions to everything. How John's breathing quickened when he stood just inside his personal space.  How his eyes dilated slightly at physical contact, and how his cheeks flushed when Sherlock complimented him, even back-handedly.  
  
And through all those long weeks, he allowed his heart a little room to be excited.  Just a little.  And he hoped that it wasn't his mind showing him what he wanted to see.  
  
It had been another long night, and they had collapsed into adrenaline-fuelled giggles after catching yet another murderer.  Sherlock had allowed his body to succumb to his exhaution, and John had done the same.  
  
It was a quarter to three when John screamed again.  Sherlock was outside his bedroom door moments later.  
  
"John? _John_!" He slammed open the door and rushed to the doctor's side.    
  
John was awake and trembling, curled into a defensive ball on his bed.  His eyes were puffy and tear-stained, his face an image of blankness, lost.  He looked up when Sherlock entered, offering a weak smile.  
  
"Oh hi, Sherlock." he said, and Sherlock's chest ached at his friend's pain.  
  
"John. . ."   
  
He sniffed.  "Just a nightmare.  Sorry I woke you."  
  
The detective sat at the edge of the bed before remembering his experiment of the past months.  He curled himself around his doctor, pulling the shaking mess of John tight against his chest. He relaxed into Sherlock, turning his face to press against his collar bone.  He didn't have to press this time for John to speak.   
  
"I don't even remember most of it.  I remember Moriarty, and something went terribly wrong, right after it had gone perfectly right . . . And everything was just ripped away." He sighed and pulled away.  "Sorry.  You need to sleep, I need to sleep.  I didn't mean to wake you; I don't want to keep you up."  
  
Sherlock knit his brow. "John, you have _always_ *l been by my side when I needed you.  I am _happy_  to return the favour."  And he pulled the doctor tighter against him, soothing the shaking sobs.  "And -- I'm sorry I left so . . . abruptly last morning.  I suppose I'm not all that good when it comes to emotions."  
  
John laughed, _really_  laughed. "It's okay, Sherlock. I understand."  
  
"But you're always capable of comfortable others, and I just--" he gestured vaguely.   
  
John laughed again, and a comfortable silence stretched between them.  
  
"John," Sherlock began.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"While I was gone . . . what did you do?  I know you visited my . . . grave, but I rarely saw you leave the flat.  What happened?"  
  
John pursed his lips.  "It was hard, Sherlock. I was . . . I don't know -- _off_ , I suppose.  I didn't _do_  anything." He sucked in a steadying breath.  "Mostly, I wondered if I would see you again if I . . . if I died."  
  
Sherlock's stomach churned.  If he had returned, just to find that John had given up before he could return -- well, he was rather certain that he would have followed, for real.  "Oh John . . ." he whispered hoarsely, breath hitching in his lungs.  "John I am so, so sorry."  
  
His doctor said nothing, but laid down, pulling the detective with.  John lay facing the window, Sherlock facing John's back.  After a long while, John's breathing evened out.  Sherlock brought his spidery fingers to his back, tracing patterns along his spine.  The patterns turned to letters, spelling out the words "I love you".  
  
When sleep finally began to drag him down, he turned away, only to be caught in John's strong embrace an instant later.  "I love you too," he whispered into the dark curls.    
  
Sherlock allowed himself a small smile which quickly turned to a frown. "You're straight." It wasn't a question, but he hoped he was wrong.  
  
John hummed a sleepy sigh againt the back of Sherlock's neck.  "No.  General preference for women, but definitely not straight." He yawned.  "Besides, why have anyone else when I can have you?"  
  
"How did you know, John?" he whispered into the dark.   
  
"Your experiments.  They were a tad obvious, Sherlock." John held his detective close. "Shhh.  Let me sleep."


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the last chapter. The ending is kinda really bad, but I didn't know how to end it, so... yeah.  
> I definitely plan on writing another fanfic, and I have a plan for it already. It may crush your souls, if you have any.
> 
> But anyway, thanks a ton for reading, and please leave any suggestions in the comments!
> 
> Xx

The following morning, Sherlock woke to John pressing a light kiss to his temple before getting up and plodding down the stairs. He smiled, remembering their brief but wonderful confessions the night before. He followed John downstairs, wrapping him in a hug from behind as he out the kettle on.  John tensed at the foreign contact before relaxing into it, reaching up to run his fingers through Sherlock's tangled curls.  
  
"Morning Sherlock," he said, smiling up at him.  
  
"Mm. Morning John." he hummed into John's hair.  
  
"Breakfast?"  
  
"If I must."  
  
They sat facing each other at the table, eating their breakfast in silence.  John reached out and twined his fingers in Sherlock's.  
  
"John . . . I'm not good at these things.  I don't know how to give you the affection you desire." Sherlock's face folded into concern and fear.  "I want you to be happy, John, but I don't know how to do this."  
  
John just smiled.  "Sherlock, I love *you*, for everything you are.  I wouldn't have you any other way.  Just be yourself; that's the Sherlock I love." He stood to press his lips to the detective's nose.  "Let me be the affectionate one, and you be you."  
  
They abandoned their half-eaten breakfast in favour of kissing, slowly making their way to the couch.  Sherlock was no expert, but he learned quickly and catalogued what made John shiver, what made him moan, and what made him pull Sherlock tighter against him.  
  
They collapsed onto the couch with a thump, John pressing Sherlock into the cushions and layering kisses across his jaw.  He tangled his fingers in Sherlock's curls and drew his tongue across his bottom lip.  Sherlock shivered at the contact and parted his lips obligingly.  
  
John's fingers found their way to the buttons on Sherlock's shirt and easily undid them, doing the same to the sleeve cuffs.  Sherlock sat up to toss the shirt away before pulling John's night shirt off over his head.   
  
Sherlock traced John's collar, working his way to the Scar. It deserved capitals. The Scar that had sent John home, and sent him to Sherlock. The Scar was the only reason they had met, the only reason they were together, at that moment, in 221B Baker Street.  
  
John tensed when Sherlock brushed the Scar and pulled away, though only just.  "Sherlock. . ." he breathed, a pained hitch in the back of his throat.  
  
"John, this scar is the only reason we're here.  I love it.  I love _you_."  he whispered, and pulled John back into a kiss.


End file.
